Flamebound A Lone Star Witch No(93)

The farther up the stairs I move, the worse the burning gets, until my entire body feels like it’s being electrified. The hair on my arms is standing straight up and my skin feels tight, achy, and so sensitive that the slight breeze blowing past me—let in by all the new holes in the walls—actually hurts wherever it touches me.

I turn to the left, head down the hallway to the guest wing. The fire marshal tries to stop me as I head into the rubble-filled hallway, as do three police officers. I don’t even acknowledge they exist—I can’t. Every molecule of energy I have, every ounce of concentration, is focused on what’s waiting for me at the end of this corridor.

Somehow Declan takes care of the authorities. Not that it surprises me. Even covered in burns and blisters, he is the most formidable man I’ve ever met.

We’re at the most badly damaged section of the hallway now, where the walls have caved in under the pressure of the floor above. Piles of bricks and wood and furniture litter the floor—some of them shoulder height or even higher—having fallen down from the third floor, which is pretty much decimated. It’s a miracle of engineering and witchcraft that the fourth floor didn’t collapse right along with it.

For a moment, just a moment, something squeaks through—a brief understanding that at least one of the bombs must have been planted on this wing of the third floor. Near Donovan’s quarters.

My blood runs even colder, though I didn’t know that was possible. If one of the bombs was left up there, then my earlier conclusions are right. This really is an attack on my entire family—and, even more importantly, on the Ipswitch crown. Donovan is the oldest child—and the most powerful and gifted of all my parents’ offspring—and as such he is the natural successor to the throne. Killing him means killing my coven’s greatest hope for the future.

The chill becomes a solid block of ice inside me, even as I remind myself that it didn’t work. That Donovan was down in the kitchen when the explosion blew. That I saw him outside just a few minutes ago, safe and sound except for a few ugly bruises.

It doesn’t matter, though, because the intent to kill him—to take over the monarchy—was there all along. My family isn’t safe. And neither is whoever is buried in these piles of rubble.

“Xandra? Are you all right?” Declan’s voice is soft, tentative, loaded with his own version of let’s-not-upset-the-crazy-person. That’s when I realize, compulsion or not, I’ve stopped here in the middle of the hallway. Frozen. Numb. Unable to go on.

I know what’s on the other side of the rubble. I may not know who yet, but every instinct I have warns me that it’s going to be bad. That it’s better if I just stand here for a little longer and pretend. Because once I know, things will never be the same.

The only problem—the compulsion is getting stronger, like rusty nails raking along my skin from the inside. Declan’s voice speaks to my magic, and the push deep inside me. It gets me moving again as the electricity kicks in, ribbons of painful sparks shooting along my every nerve ending.

I start to run, to claw and climb and dig and fight my way over the hills of debris until I slam to a stop on the other side. This is it. I know it. I can feel the surety of it bouncing around inside me like one of those rubber balls from childhood. It hits up against something—my fear, my revulsion, my hatred of this aspect of my power—then bounces off again. Every slam is another emotion, every moment another reason for me to just do it. To just rip the bandage off and see what I’ve been so desperately trying to hide from.

It’s harder than it sounds. I’ve spent so long—most of my childhood and early adulthood—wishing for magic. Now that I have it, I want nothing more than to give it up. For so many, many reasons.

But now, this moment, isn’t the time for wishes. I stumble forward, aware—once again—of Declan at my back. The compulsion guides me to just the right spot. Then I drop to my knees and begin to dig.

Seconds later, Declan follows suit.

He uses magic to lift as much of the debris as he can, but the balance is precarious up here and if he lifts too much, we risk all of it caving in on whoever is trapped below. Though there’s a big part of me that knows it’s too late—that whoever it is is dead or the compulsion wouldn’t have kicked in—there’s a small part of me that won’t let go of the hope, the prayer, that we’ll find him or her alive.

So, for the most part, we use our hands to dig through the debris—the wood and rock, glass and plastic. I’m not being careful enough. My attention is focused on what, who, is below the rubble, and I end up slicing my thumb open on a particularly jagged piece of glass.